When I was little my parents had a wood barrel ice cream maker. We didn’t use it often because the contraption was too noisy for too long. The motor whirred and whined and buzzed, churning the cream inside a rather small white plastic container. On and on it would drone as Mom and Dad took turns feeding it with ice and rock salt. You could forget about watching television, talking on the telephone or carrying on a conversation. The noise drowned out everything. Even one’s consciousness. As much as we loved homemade ice cream, the beast remained in storage the better part of its lifespan.
Abuchon 
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